Chapter 537: The Tale Spinner of Cordu

I’m a failure. I barely notice whether the sun is shining or not because I never have the time.

My parents can’t support me, my education isn’t impressive, and here I am alone in this city searching for a future.

I’ve applied to a ton of jobs, but not a single one has hired me. Maybe it’s because no one wants someone who’s bad at conversation, doesn’t care for socializing, and doesn’t seem all that capable.

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There was a time when, for three whole days, I survived on just two pieces of bread. Hunger kept me awake at night. Luckily, I’d paid a month’s rent in advance, so at least I could stay in my dark basement room and avoid the biting winter winds outside.

At last, I landed a job—night watch at the hospital. My post? Guarding the morgue.

The hospital at night was colder than I ever imagined. The corridor lights were off, shadows everywhere, so I had to rely on the faint glow leaking from nearby rooms just to see my feet.

The place reeked. Every so often, someone would wheel in a new corpse stuffed into a body bag. We worked together to move them into the morgue.

It wasn’t what you’d call a good job, but at least it paid for bread. I could even study during the long, empty nights—nobody wanted to visit the morgue unless they had to drop off a body or pick one up for cremation. Still, I couldn’t afford books yet, and saving up felt hopeless.

I owe this job to my predecessor. If he hadn’t quit so suddenly, I wouldn’t have landed it at all.

I dreamt of working the day shift, but for now I always slept when the sun came up and woke when night fell. My body grew weak, my head sometimes pulsed with pain.

One day, the porters brought in another corpse.

Word was, this was my old coworker—the one who’d quit out of nowhere.

I got curious about him. Once everyone was gone, I slid open the locker, quietly unzipped the bag.

He was an old man, his skin a ghostly mix of blue and white, wrinkles everywhere. He looked downright terrifying in that dim light.

What little hair he had left was nearly all white. He’d been stripped completely, not even a scrap of fabric left on him.

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On his chest I spotted a strange mark—dark greenish-black, though I couldn’t make out the details; it was just too dark.

I reached out and touched the mark. Nothing happened—nothing special, anyway.

As I looked down at my former coworker, I wondered—if I kept living like this, would I end up the same way in old age?

I told him I’d take him to the crematorium myself the next day, and personally bring his ashes to the nearest free cemetery. That way, the folks in charge wouldn’t just dump him in a river or some empty field out of inconvenience.

It would cost me a morning’s sleep, but that was fine—Sunday was coming, I could catch up.

After saying all that, I zipped up the bag and slid it back in.

The room somehow felt even darker than before…

From that night on, every time I closed my eyes I dreamed of drifting through thick fog.

I just had this feeling that something was coming for me—not sure it’d even be human. But nobody believed me. They thought working in that environment had messed with my head, that I needed to see a doctor…

A man sitting at the bar turned to the storyteller who had abruptly stopped:

“So? What happened next?”

This man looked to be in his thirties, wore a rough brown coat and pale yellow trousers, and kept his flat-crowned dark hat on the bar beside him.

He seemed quite ordinary—just like most in the tavern. Black hair, light blue eyes, features neither handsome nor ugly, nothing remarkable about him.

To him, though, the storyteller was a young man of eighteen or nineteen, tall and wiry, black short hair, the same pale blue eyes—but sharply defined features that made him stand out.

The young man stared at his empty glass, let out a sigh, and said:

“And then?”

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“And then I quit and came back to the countryside. Now I’m here spinning tales with you.”

As he said it, a sly smile curled on his lips.

The man at the bar blinked in surprise:

“Wait—so you were just making that up?”

Laughter erupted around the bar.

When it quieted down, a gaunt middle-aged man eyed the embarrassed guest and said:

“You’re not from around here, are you? You actually believed Lumian’s story? He tells something new every day. Yesterday he was dumped by his fiancée for being poor; today he’s a corpse guard!”

“Yeah, and sometimes it’s ‘Thirty years east of the Serrence River, thirty years west’—always some wild story!” another tavern regular chimed in.

They were all farmers from this big village of Cordu, dressed in black, gray, or brown coats.

The young man, called Lumian, braced himself on the bar, stood up slowly, and grinned:

“You all know I’m not making this stuff up. My sister writes it all down—her stories are the best. She’s a columnist for the Weekly Novel Magazine.”

Then he turned to the outsider and shrugged beamingly.

“Looks like her stories really are something else!”

“Sorry about the misunderstanding.”

The man in the brown coat wasn’t upset. He stood up too, smiling:

“It’s a good story.”

“And your name?”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first before asking?” Lumian replied with a chuckle.

The visiting guest gave a nod:

“I’m Ryan Coste.

These are my companions, Valentine and Leah.”

He meant the man and woman sitting nearby.

The man looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, blond hair powdered, eyes a dark lake blue, dressed in a white vest, blue jacket, and black pants. Clearly, he’d put effort into his appearance before heading out.

He had a cold air about him, barely sparing the local farmers and herders a glance.

The woman looked younger than the two men, her pale gray hair styled into a complex bun, a white veil doing double duty as her hat.

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched Lumian with open amusement—as if everything was just fun and games.

Under the glow of the tavern’s gas lamps, this Leah showed off a pretty nose and a beautifully shaped mouth—a real head-turner in a rural place like Cordu.

She wore a white, form-fitting cashmere dress, a cream jacket, and a pair of Marshal boots. There were silver bells tied to both her veil and boots, so when she’d entered, they jingled with every step, catching every man’s gaze.

In their eyes, only someone from a big city—like Bigo in the provincial capital or Trier itself—would dress so fashionably.

Lumian nodded to the three outsiders:

“I’m Lumian Lee. You can just call me Lumian.”

“Lee?” Leah blurted out.

“Why, is there something wrong with my last name?” Lumian asked curiously.

Ryan Coste explained for her:

“Your surname is fearsome. I almost lost my composure when I heard it.”

Seeing confusion on the faces of the local farmers and herders, he went on:

“Anyone who’s spent time around sailors or merchants knows this saying from the Five Seas:

‘Better to run into pirates and warlords—even kings—than cross paths with a man named Frank Lee.’

“His surname is Lee, too.”

“He must be terrifying, huh?” Lumian asked.

Ryan shook his head.

“I have no idea. But for there to be a rumor like that, he must be something special.”

He dropped the subject and turned to Lumian:

“Thanks for your story. It deserves a drink—what’ll you have?”

“An Absinthe,” Lumian answered right away, settling back into his seat.

Ryan Coste frowned slightly.

“Absinthe… The ‘Green Fairy’?”

“You know, I should warn you—absinthe’s dangerous. It can harm your mind, even cause hallucinations.”

“I didn’t know absinthe had caught on in Trier already,” Leah said with a wry grin.

Lumian let out an ‘oh.’

“So people in Trier like Absinthe too… For us, life’s already hard enough. What’s a little more damage? At least it helps you relax.”

“All right,” Ryan said, sitting back down and turning to the barman. “One glass of Absinthe, and I’ll take a Fiery Heart as well.”

Fiery Heart was a well-known fruit brandy.

“Why don’t I get an Absinthe, too? I was the one who told you the truth! I can even spill all the dirt on this kid!” The gaunt man from earlier—Pierre—shouted, “Out-of-towners, I can tell you’re not sure whether his story’s true!”

“Pierre, you’ll do anything for a free drink!” Lumian called out.

Before Ryan could reply, Lumian added:

“Why can’t I tell the story myself? That way I could score another Absinthe!”

“Because no one knows whether to believe what you say,” Pierre said slyly. “Your sister’s favorite story for the kids was ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf.’ If you always lie, you lose everyone’s trust.”

“Fine,” Lumian shrugged, watching the barman slide a pale green drink his way.

Ryan looked to him for confirmation.

“Is that all right?”

“No problem—as long as you can pay for all these drinks,” Lumian replied, unconcerned.

“Another Absinthe, then,” Ryan nodded.

Pierre grinned from ear to ear.

“Generous, aren’t you! But watch out for this kid—he’s the prankster of the village. You’re better off steering clear.

Five years ago, his sister Aurore brought him back to the village, and he’s never left since. He was only thirteen then—no way he worked at a hospital morgue! The nearest hospital is down the mountain in Daliege. It’d take a whole afternoon just to walk there.”

“Brought back to the village?” Leah pressed, tilting her head and setting her bells jingling.

Pierre nodded.

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“Since then, he’s gone by Aurore’s surname—Lee. Even the name ‘Lumian’ was given by her.”

“Can’t remember what he was called before,” Lumian said, taking a sip of absinthe and grinning.

Clearly, he wasn’t the least bit ashamed about his past being laid out for everyone to see.